It’s new.
Probably made for me. A small comfort knowing there isn’t a dark history to wonder about.
He/they drugged me.
Why?
To transport me. Or disorient me. Or both.
What’s my last memory?
My fingers dig into my arms as I try to think. But my memory is so fogged by the drugs, it’s hard to recall anything about yesterday. Was it day? Was it night? Was I studying?
I dig harder, my long nails scraping flesh, forcing my mind to sharpen with the pain. When the image clears, I release.
My bed. I was definitely in my bed.
Cinder was curled on my chest, my collarbone vibrating with her steady purr. It was half-past midnight when I last looked at the clock. My eyes were crossing after hours of studying and scrolling Reddit, yet my mind was wired.
I took a pill.
My vision blurred before the white ceiling faded away, Cinder’s paw on my neck the last thing I remember before I slipped into sleep.
An echo sounds from deep in the cave: a rock dropping in water. Maybe a small animal. Maybe a sociopath.
“Is somebody there?” I call, quieter now. I watch the pitch black of the tunnel and wait for a movement, a shadow, a person to appear.
Nothing.
Stepping up to the bars, I search for an opening or groove. For some indication of a door.
Nothing.
Did he build this while I was unconscious, lying steps away?
What’s the plan—keep me locked in here forever?
I grab the bars and yank. Cold metal sears the soles of my feet as I brace for leverage. My groans travel the tunnel as I jerk and pull, body leaned back, arms straining. It doesn’t even rattle.
“What the fuck is this?!” Curling my hand into a fist, I slam one of the bars. The only answer is an ache in the side of my hand.
I spin to seek out a candle and settle on the first I see. A long wax stick burned down to inches, held in a metal base bolted into the rock. Who knows how long ago these were lit—or what I would’ve done if I’d woken up in darkness.
Careful not to snuff out the flame, I push the candle through the bars and scan for anything outside the cell. Not a person, but a sign.
This is starting to feel like a game.
Something round and wooden draws my eye to the cave floor. I sidestep in front of the object, kneel, and extend the candle through.
A shovel. Wooden handle toward me, steel blade lost in shadow but unmistakably hopeful.
I return the candle to its holder and lie flat on my belly, the bar bruising my cheek as I reach through. I can barely graze it. Whoever placed it there either measured the distance with surgical precision or gambled on my escape. Playfully evil or incredibly stupid.
“Come on,” I moan, extending my arm until my ligaments scream for mercy. Pain lights up my shoulder as my longest two fingertips pinch the splintered wood and try—unsuccessfully—to drag it closer.
I close my eyes, let my arm relax. Inhale wet dust.
Then plunge into the bars, fingertips catching the shovel in a loose grip—just enough to drag it a centimeter.
